


Boy Next Door

by htebazytook



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Christmas, Coitus Interruptus, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Pittsburgh, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After my recent angst fest I went on a fluffy, domesticy spree of tooth-rotting goodness.  Okay, it's not actually quite that bad, but still.  Summary = the joys of spending Christmas at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy Next Door

**Title:** Boy Next Door  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** Zach/Chris  
 **Author's Notes:** After my recent angst fest I went on a fluffy, domesticy spree of tooth-rotting goodness. Okay, it's not actually quite that bad, but still. Summary = the joys of spending Christmas at home.

 

 

"Aren't you supposed to be _soothing_ my fears over meeting the parents?"

"This is different, Chris; this is _my mom_."

"Oh, God, I could actually _hear_ that semicolon, you dork."

"Chris, you don't understand—"

"Seriously, don't sweat it. I'm universally loved by moms—no, shut up, I'm not being a dick, I'm stating a fact. I could nab a cougar in mere seconds if I so desired."

"Okay, number one? Please try not to seduce my mother. Number two, she's convinced that nobody is good enough for her baby, and nearly all of the people I've brought to meet her haven't stuck around much longer. Seriously. And by the way that includes just like friends who came over after school. So yeah, my fears are justified."

"Now, see, all of these scare tactics are useless. I've heard it all before, and my ex-girlfriends' mothers have inevitably fallen head over heels for my boyish charm in spite of themselves. In fact they usually end up liking me more than their daughters do, which is why they're all ex-. Also that whole being gay thing—hey, your mom's cool with that right? Is that what this is about?"

"It's . . . complicated."

"Oh my God, Zach, for the last time, we are not seeing a romantic comedy over _Christmas_ , no matter how much you loooove Meryl Streep."

"Fuck off. Look, my mom just has some weirdly old fashioned notions about how to properly court someone. The gender of my significant others doesn't faze her ever since she decided that Joe was in charge of the grandchildren."

Chris laughs. "And how does Joe feel about that?"

"Well, he doesn't technically _know_. I mean, I 'made sure he understood', of course, but—"

Chris laughs again. "Hey, do we go down the escalator or . . . cause it _says_ baggage is that way but I forget what letter . . ."

Zach sighs. "Just stick with me, Berkeley. You'll be okay."

They finally make it to the baggage claim. Zach checks his watch. "Hm, she's probably here by now—go look for a silver car, I'll get your bag."

"But how will I know—?"

"You'll know," Zach forebodes.

Chris rolls his eyes, walks over to the windows. "Hey, there's a silver car already here. Oh. And there's someone getting out of it and walking over and— _ohhh_ , the frantic waving is what you were talking about, huh? Yeah that's pretty distinctive."

Zach sidles up to him and hands Chris his bag. "That's her. Oh and, by the way," he says just before the automatic doors slide open, "we're not gonna be able to fuck for two weeks."

Chris turns on him. "Ex _cuse_ me—?"

"Oh hello dear, you must be Chris!" Margo Quinto bubbles, forces him into a hug.

*

"What kind of today is this, Zachary?" Margo asks when they're in the car.

Chris frowns. "Friday," Zach says without batting an eyelash.

"Oh, that's right. I'll take the back way, then."

Chris feels strangely like a teenager sitting in the backseat with Zach, unfamiliar with his surroundings and subject to the whims of someone's mom—I mean, God knew how any pit stops she was liable to make. It could be hours before they even got to her house. Chris didn’t know how far away Green Tree even _was_.

"So, Chris, you're in Steelers Country now," Margo says. "I've gotta ask if you're a fan."

"Oh, I don't really follow baseball, but I know how big it is here," Chris says, pleased with how casually it comes out. It's a good line and you can't go wrong with it—you show your interest and excuse yourself from being expected to understand the local sports bullshit in one fell swoop . . .

For some reason Zach's got this look of horror on his face. What an asshole—Chris knows what he's doing.

"They sure are doing well this season, though," Chris continues. "Really showing everyone what they're made of." But this only makes Zach more panicky—shaking his head and mouthing _No_ now.

"You think so?" Margo asks, a little too high-pitched, eyes intent on the road.

"Oh dear God," Zach mutters, and it kind of seems like he might be praying.

*

They make it back to Zach's house eventually, none the worse for wear thanks to Margo's short attention span and her propensity for gushing over her son at every available opportunity. After they're all settled (in separate rooms, to which Chris glares and Zach says _I told you . . ._ ), they make some more successful small talk in the unhurried atmosphere of the sitting room, TV rumbling gently on in the background.

"I need more wine. Zachary?" Margo hands him the empty glass without looking.

Chris grabs his arm, unexpectedly terrified of being left alone with her. "No worries—I'm a pro," Zach says quietly. And indeed, he's back with Margo's wine before she's even finished formulating another question to ask.

Zach sits back down on the couch with him and Chris leans close, speaks under his breath: "That's like the fourth glass of wine she's had."

"Oh, don't worry, Chris," Margo interjects, suddenly paying attention again. "It doesn't affect me after five 'o'clock. Now, can I get you something to drink?"

"Oh, um. Sure."

"You like white wine, right?"

"Actually do you have any red? I'm fine with either, but it's just—"

"Okay, dear, I'll get you some pinot grigio," Margo smiles, pats him on the arm and disappears into the kitchen again.

Zach takes one look at his face and laughs at him, whispers: "She doesn't own anything alcoholic other than pinot grigio and I'm 100% positive she's never drunk anything than that, hot water, and tomato juice."

Chris can't keep any of this straight—he's beginning to understand why Zach had refused to explain his mother in any detail ahead of time. "Wait, why didn't she make you get it for me?"

"You're her guest, stupid."

Margo shoves the glass of wine in his face. "There you go, dear. Drink up." Returns to her burgundy La-Z-Boy throne. "So, Chris, how did you and Zachary meet?"

It surprises a laugh out of Chris. He glances at Zach.

"Well, mom, we actually met—"

"Oh, I want to hear it from Chris," she says, and Chris gets the distinct impression that Zach has fucked up and told her two different versions of the story. See, this is why they should've _talked_ about this and come up with a _plan_. Detailed, agreed upon plans, lies, and table manners are the key to any successful meeting of the parents.

Chris tries to keep track of approval in Zach's face out of the corner of his eye as he speaks: "Well, we, uh, met on se—"—Zach shakes his head—"that is, in Silver Lake. At . . ."—little nod from Zach—"the? I mean, a . . ."—and Zach is looking frantically _up_ now, like it's at all helpful—"a . . . kite-flying—?"

"Club," Zach butts in.

Margo frowns. "Your church has a kite-flying club?"

"Oh, they all do in California," Zach explains.

"Hm. I didn't know they even had clubs for kite-flying. Well, I guess it's different out there on the West Coast. Warm weather all the time, and that."

*

"Kite-flying?" Zach hisses while Margo's fixing dinner.

" _Church?_ "

"Catholic school, remember? Irish Catholic means Catholic for life even if you're a sinful, homosexual atheist. At least that's what it means to her."

"You know, I'm beginning to think you're setting me up for failure, here. Anything else about our past I should know?"

Zach slides his glasses up, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Chris . . ."

"I mean, just look at me," Chris begins, aware of how whiny he sounds, "I'm the boy next door for God's sake!"

"The boy next door," Zach nods.

They reflect on it.

"Yeah," Zach sighs after a minute. "Yeah, you did everything right, except for that blasphemy in the car, but she's probably forgotten about that by now. She's just too unpredictable, believe me. You're never going to win."

"Oh, I'll _win_."

"Look, baby, I know you want to prove once and for all that your boyish charm is still going strong or whatever, but it's a lost cause. Don't waste your energy."

"But—"

Margo returns with a bountiful tray of—well, to be honest, Chris isn't sure exactly _what_ it is, but he keeps his revulsion to the marinara sauce under wraps pretty decently, silently cursing his lack of foresight: just because Zach's father had been the Italian one didn't mean there was a ban on all pasta in the house forever. In fact, it made a lot of sense given Zach's discriminating tastes when it came to Italian food. Not that Zach wasn't a snob when it came to just about _anything_ . . .

The food makes it to the table and Chris is hit with its steamy aroma, realizes with a sinking heart that it's seafood of some kind on top of being drenched in marinara. Yerghf. Damn, he really hadn't thought this through.

Thankfully Zach isn't paying attention, too absorbed in the task of transferring food to his plate while simultaneously beaming at his mother beaming at him. Chris tries very hard not to roll his eyes.

"It looks _delicious_ , Mrs. Quinto. Thanks for inviting me." Nice and simple, but Chris delivers it with borderline sarcastic enthusiasm. Zach kicks him under the table and Chris kicks back before he can make his getaway, smiles broadly.

"Oh please, dear, you're making me feel old. Call me Margo."

Chris laughs amicably. "Well if you insist." He tries and fails to get some of the red, randomly meat-strewn noodles onto his plate until Zach just takes the gigantic fork from him and serves him his food like a four year old. Chris waits 'til he's finished to kick him again.

Zach and his mother reminisce for awhile about the food, their conversation interspersed with bouts of praise for the chef to a sickening degree. Chris hunkers down and tries to convince himself he's eating an especially tomatoey lo mein in peace.

He can't quite figure out what it is about Margo that's thrown him off. Something to do with her eyes—they're the same odd uneven shape as Zach's. Might just be the look of distrust in them, though.

Zach kicks him again and Chris snaps out of it and blurts, "Of course," which is usually a viable, if noncommittal, response.

Zach makes a face. "Um, were you even paying attention?"

Oh shit. "Yeah, yeah."

Margo smiles toothily, but not in any good way—in more of a Cheshire Cat kinda way. "Of course you were, dear. So, where?" she asks.

"Well, I mean, in Los Angeles." She'd been asking about his childhood, right? It was about that time of night . . .

"Forever? Oh, you must not have any other ambitions, then. Do you think acting is really all that sustainable for so long . . . ?"

"Mom," Zach sighs.

"What? Chris isn't offended—we're just getting to know one another."

"She asked where you saw yourself in ten years," Zach tells him.

Ohhhhh. "Oh. Well, actually I really couldn't say, I've always—"

Margo nods sympathetically. "Because you don't have any other interests. Of course. While that's all right, some people are only any good at one thing. But Chris, dear, you really should try to see the big picture with all this acting business."

Zach pinches the bridge of his nose again—clearly a nervous tic set off by his mother—and doesn't even come to Chris's rescue. What a little _bitch_.

"Actually, Margo, acting was kind of a backup plan for me. I know that's not how it normally goes, but . . . I mean, my family is in the business and, I dunno, it's always been a fallback. I went to school for English, so. Yeah. Acting has never really been, like, a lifelong dream job of mine or anything."

Margo frowns. "Ohhh. So you were just born into this and didn't have to really work for it."

Chris grits his teeth into a smile. "It was definitely a lot of work. Just isn't that big of a passion for me, that's all."

"Well . . ." Margo shakes her head, concentrates on gathering up pasta. "It's just my two cents, Chris dear, but I think you'd be a lot happier doing something you're passionate about."

"But you just said—you just—."

"Hm? I'm sorry, did you say something else, dear?" She really reminds Chris of a certain antagonist in a certain series of children's books he'd rather not admit to having read. I mean, he's starting to honestly believe Zach used to date J.K. Rowling.

Chris's smile must look positively crazed by now. "I just wanted to compliment you on the _delicious_ food once again."

She smiles and nods. "Well don't just sit there yapping about it—eat up!"

"Hey, Mom—"

"He could really stand to gain some weight, don't you think, Zachary? Really, you're looking awfully thin, Chris. Do you not cook at home? Working yourself to the bone is no way to live, you know."

Chris just looks over at Zach and tries to convey 'murderous' under all that amicability. Zach looks appropriately guilty.

" _Anyway_ , Mom, nobody can ever really predict where they'll be in ten years. I mean, I don't—"

"Oh, but you should be thinking about these thi—what is he doing?"

Chris looks up from his food. "Mrnf?"

Zach leans over and swaps some silverware into Chris's hands, twists up pasta with the fork and then swirls at into a ball using the spoon—a much faster, more practiced motion than Chris's slow progress using the normal person method of half-stabbing, half-twirling, and half-eating. He tries to remember if Zach normally treats him like a four year old during dinner.

"You were doing it wrong," Margo confides, seems very pleased with herself.

Chris sucks in a calming breath, turns on Zach again, tirade about his chopstick prowess on the tip of his tongue and couldn't they just order some Chinese so Margo could see him in action, please?

*

Chris is angrily scrubbing his face with the way too expensive acne shit he's too afraid to stop using when Zach knocks, slips noiselessly into the guest room. Chris looks up at himself in the mirror, slimy gunk and a bitchy look on his face, sighs.

"Hey," Zach says, sneaks up behind him all warm and apologetic, peers at Chris over his head. Trying to cheer him up.

Chris smiles. "Don't worry, I'll survive. Just trying to adjust to my new life as a former cougar magnet."

Zach shrugs. "I hate to break it to you but the gang from Twilight is kind of encroaching on your territory now," Zach mumbles, kisses the back of his neck for awhile before pulling away.

"'Night, Z."

"'Night."

*

In the beginning, Chris had comforted himself with the knowledge that it could only get better, that not _every_ night would be a repeat of the first one. As the days wore on, though, it became apparent that every night would indeed consist of a sit down family meal, throughout which Margo would either put Chris to sleep with stories about the good old days or dissect every single one of his life decisions and the motives behind them. She never _directly_ took a jab at their relationship, but she was doing such a good job of belittling Chris day in and day out that she really didn't need to. And the worst part about the whole thing was Zach—he obviously felt bad, but he loved his mom and, really, was judged by her just as much if not more.

Chris could have taken it all if not for the fact that they'd gone so long without touching for more than a few stolen seconds here and there, under tables or in quiet little moments before bed. Once, while Margo had been bustling about the kitchen stereotypically, Zach had pulled him into the bathroom with him for a lengthy, albeit silent, make out session. She'd called them down all too soon and left Chris sexually frustrated for the rest of the morning. Zach's foot running contritely up his leg all through breakfast hadn't helped matters.

But then, one magical day, they get home from Giant Eagle (Chris thought Zach had said American Eagle, but figures all his teasing in the car was still legitimate) and Margo's car isn't in the driveway.

"Hello? Mom?" Zach calls, putting groceries down on the counter.

"She's not here."

Zach doesn't look so sure, moves through the house tentatively.

"Where'd she go?" Chris asks, looks for a note on the table like his own mother is wont to leave.

Zach joins him in the kitchen and folds his arms and glances around suspiciously. "I don't like it. It's too easy."

Chris laughs. "But . . . we're alone at last," he wheedles, placing Zach's hands on his hips, letting his fingers thread through Zach's hair.

"She could—we don't know how long—"

"Zach. Two weeks."

Zach bites his lip, sighs. "Touché."

Chris pats his cheek. "Good man," he murmurs, leans in for a kiss. Zach catches on pretty quick.

They make it as far as the stairs before Chris stumbles backward and Zach ends up on top of him and they just give it up and make out against the banister instead.

Chris keeps trying to remove Zach's clothes but Zach only bats his hands away, kisses him harder, bruising kisses, pent up lust and this exhilarating, all-encompassing sense of haste. Chris lets his hands slip up under Zach's nice button-down shirt instead—the kind he only owns for social gatherings ranking somewhere between clubbing 'til 4 AM and the red carpet, and therefore never wears. It gives Chris another reason to want to defile him in an appropriately wanton way, so hungry for his skin.

Chris finally manages to get Zach's fly open, takes hold of his cock before Zach can protest and watches his head loll back, his hands grabbing at Chris's clothes to ball them in his fists. Chris kisses his neck and lower, mouthing overheated skin through the expensive silky fabric of Zach's shirt. He slides down Zach's body, disjointed and less than sensual on the stairs, ignores Zach's continuing protests and focuses instead on the breathy quality to his voice, his full and heavy cock, his encouraging hands.

Chris pulls his boxers out of the way and takes Zach in his mouth, glancing up just in time to see Zach's eyes flutter. Chris loves the atmosphere desperation, discovery, the illogical _need_ to touch one another. Zach groans and struggles not to force Chris deeper, fingers scrabbling into the carpeted stairs. Chris smirks and sucks hard, lets his tongue paint haphazardly along the underside of Zach's cock until he gets that dark gaze on him again, sucks harder.

"Chris, _God_. More." He glances furtively at the front door and bites his gorgeously swollen lip. Furious blush creeping from his cheeks and down his neck in such a manner that Chris wants to kiss along it immediately. Chris focuses on the head of Zach's cock to get his attention, feels heat racing through him when Zach's eyes settle back on Chris's mouth around him—intense, dark, wanton.

Chris starts to move up and down on Zach's cock, gaining speed and sucking just slightly too hard from time to time to get Zach to gasp. Zach's hands settle on Chris's shoulders, gripping tightly.

"Ah, fuck fuck fuck, Chris, don't stop—"

"You're close, huh?" Chris says, low and muffled around the cock in his mouth. He teases Zach's balls, hums and takes him deeper.

Zach comes with a drawn out groan, thrusting into Chris's mouth as he spends himself, apologizing and murmuring praise interchangeably. Chris doesn't mind swallowing in this particular instance given that excess ejaculate on Margo's nice burgundy rug would've been a bit of a giveaway. And God, Chris reflects, what in this house _wasn't_ burgundy?

"Come here," Zach is saying, maneuvering Chris around until he's flat on his back (ish) on the stairs. He gets Chris's zipper down like a trained professional, bends over to mouth at Chris's straining cock through his underwear. Chris curses and buries his hands in Zach's over-product-afied hair, can't hold back a moan and a _Yes, please, fuck yes_ when Zach finally takes Chris into his mouth . . .

A key in the door. The sound of _a key in the front door_.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," Chris mutters, pushes Zach away and tries to make himself presentable while Zach does the same. Zach pulls him to his feet and Chris tries to fix Zach's hair while Zach leans in quick to lick a wayward stripe of come off of Chris's chin. The door wooshes open and they separate as if on cue.

"Oh, hello, boys," Margo smiles, and Chris can't control his blush because oh God she clearly _knows_ just by looking at them. Granted, Chris's raging erection might've been a bit of a give-away.

*

"I mean, seriously, what is _with_ the whole no sex thing?" Chris whines, one extra long shower later.

"Honestly? I think she's just using it to put pressure on me to get married sooner rather than later so she can fuss about a wedding, and that. This is the woman who did my laundry for most of my life—she knows what a horny slut I am."

Chris can't help but laugh. "Oh, God. You're not actually getting married one day, are you?"

Zach pauses. "I mean, it's what you're supposed to _do_ , Chris."

Chris waves it off. "Dumb empty traditions. They don't mean anything. Oh shit." Zach doesn't look too pleased. "Hey, sorry—I just don't get why people need to officially tie the knot, you know? Isn't being together enough?"

"Yeah, but. But . . . "

"But you've dreamed of your wedding day since you were a little girl?"

Zach laughs. "You'd still marry me, though, right?"

Chris blinks. How in the world had they stumbled on _this_ subject, exactly? It wasn't the kind of thing they talked about. Ever. "If you really, if—"

"Zachary!" Margo calls, just in time, and Chris suddenly _adores_ her for it. "Dinner!"

Zach turns to go, doesn’t seem all that perturbed now but Chris still feels it necessary to intercept him and kiss him for a good five minutes before they go downstairs.

*

One of Zach's friends growing up calls and he jumps out of his chair and practically squeals before dashing off into the other room to catch up with him in private. Chris can only take so much squealing in one day, and would've been grateful if only Zach's departure hadn't meant some alone time with Zach's mom.

Alone. With Zach's _mom_.

"All right, Margo, what do you say we cut the crap?"

She has the decency to look taken aback before it finally sets in that Chris isn't budging. She sighs and looks down, her whole demeanor changing, speaking quietly: "Do you have something to say, Chris?"

"Oh," Chris laughs, "I certainly do have a _number_ of somethings to say to you."

Margo fiddles with her sleeve. " _Somebody_ has to vet you, Chris," she says primly. "Don't take it personally."

Chris blinks.

"Just making sure you're good enough for my baby. Let's be honest—you're a big flashy movie star in high demand. What's to say you won't get bored or end up in a messy domestic dispute on TMZ?"

Chris continues to blink, thrown off by her sudden bluntness. "In case you haven't noticed, Zach's a bit of a star too," he says, pauses. "People actually watch TMZ?"

"You just don't seem particularly . . . well. Gay."

Chris is sure the expression on his face is ridiculous. He can't even formulate a response.

"You know that, right dear?"

Chris laughs without planning to. "Uh, yeah, actually, I do kinda know that. Definitely not straight, though."

Margo sighs. "Look Chris, the bottom line is you come across as ingratiating and insincere. Fake. You're too attractive and too successful to be really _serious_ about Zachary. I'm sorry, but that's just how I feel."

"But—"

Zach trots back into the burgundy sitting room. "I hope you kids had fun while I was away!" he beams, looking between them nervously.

*

Two hours and twelve minutes after landing in Los Angeles, Zach stops kissing him and rolls over onto his side of the bed with an almighty sigh. Chris laughs at the ceiling, still shaky and oversaturated with pleasure.

"Okay, I'm officially done being miffed because your mom hates me," Chris tells him. "That was awesome. Can you be especially Catholic this year and abstain for Lent? You'd have to fuck my brains out, like, as soon as He rises again, though."

"Psh. I don't care if my mom hates you—I told you, she's determined to hate those who take her baby away from her. LA sort of did that, too, so the fact that you were spawned here probably didn't help either."

"Mm." A warm silence. "She thinks I'm not serious about you. You don't think that, right?"

"Ugh, we're still on this, huh?" Zach shifts around on the bed until he's thoroughly tangled up in Chris and the messy sheets. "Just don't let her get to you, okay?" He sounds ready for sleep, words trailing off lazily.

Chris nods, knows he's right. "Do you think I'm fake?" he blurts.

Zach laughs. "What the fuck? You really need to stop thinking so much," he says sleepily, and it kind of annoys Chris that he hasn't got his full attention.

"We can, like, we can get married or whatever if you really want to. Or whatever."

He can feel Zach frown against his shoulder, feels his eyes on him. " _What?_ "

"If you really . . . I love you, Zach."

"I know. But you need to calm down, baby. Seriously."

"Yeah, but— _mm_." And Zach just stops him with his mouth.

*


End file.
